Mark was naturally of a quick and ardent spirit, only too ready to avenge insult, whether with his tongue or his hand. But at this moment his pride was subdued, he felt less inclined for angry retort; the young pilgrim was more on his guard; his first fall had taught him to walk carefully. Without replying, therefore, to the taunt of Jack, or continuing the subject at all, he turned to Ann Dowley, and asked her if she could lend him a needle and thread. “What do you want with them?” asked Ann. “Why, I am afraid that I shall be but a poor hand at the work, but I thought that I might manage to patch up one or two of these great holes, and make my dress look a little more respectable.” “And why do you wish to look respectable?” asked Madge, glancing at him through the uncombed, unwashed locks that hung loosely over her brow; “we get more when we look ragged.” “To-morrow is Sunday,” Mark briefly replied, “and I am going to church.” “To church!” exclaimed every other voice in the cottage, in a tone of as much surprise as if he had said that he was going to prison. Except Ann, in better days, not one of the party had ever crossed the threshold of a church. “Well, if ever!” exclaimed Jack; “why on earth do you go there?” “I go because I think it right to do so, and because I think that it will help me on my way.” “And what will you do when you get there?” laughed Ben. “I shall listen, learn, and pray.” Ann, who, by dint of searching in a most disorderly box, filled with a variety of odds and ends, had drawn forth first thread and then needle, stretched out her hand towards Mark. “Give me your jacket, I will mend it,” said she. “Oh, thank you, how kind!” he cried, pulling it off, pleased with an offer as unexpected as it was unusual. “I think,” said Madge, “that the shirt wants mending worse than the jacket; under that hole on the shoulder I can see the red mark quite plainly.” “Be silent, and don’t talk nonsense!” cried Ann, impatiently. The children glanced at each other, and were silent. “Are you going to the near church by the wood?” said Ann. “No,” replied Mark; “I have two reasons for going to Marshdale, though it is six or seven miles off. I would rather not go where—where I am known; and judging from the direction in which his carriage was driven, I think that I should have a better chance at Marshdale of hearing Mr. Ewart.” “Hearing whom?” exclaimed Ann, almost dropping her work, whilst the blood rushed up to her face. “Mr. Ewart, the clergyman who has been so kind, the tutor to Lord Fontonore.” “Lord Fontonore! does he live here?” cried Ann, almost trembling with excitement as she spoke. “I do not know exactly where he lives. I should think it some way off, as the carriage was put up at the inn. Did you ever see the clergyman, mother?” “He used to visit at my last place,” replied Ann, looking distressed. “I think I’ve heard father talk about Lord Fontonore,” said Madge. “No, you never did,” cried Ann, abruptly.